Group D Ode to Blu By Madisyn Blu my Beloved Blu I love your Colors like a dark Pattern Blue, Grey, black Blue, grey Black like a Dark rainbow Of love when You purr Your eyes widen And sparkle and when Your claws Sink in the Couch, when Grandma yells At you let Out a big Meow And run Out of sight And when you Sleep like a Little angel
Ode to Haze
by Erik Frid
a steamy blanket clouds the horizon,
dispersing the sun,
children’s book farms and valleys
blurred and washed over
like a fuzzy photograph,
reinventing the straight world.
summer haze,
when the world shifts to the sun,
when it fills the west with poetry,
when it glosses the setting west.
for February is far too long
stale and rigid.
Ode to Sea Isle City By Sela Wyetzner
My feet sinking in to the sand Seeing people tan Splashing in the waves Oh beach you are the best thing in the world Playing on floats Getting your totes filled with sunscreen I wish I could be there all my life Finding wonderful things in the sand
It is so fun it gets out of hand Getting all sandy The hose is handy Your food is good I like Braca’s the best I am so glad we rented a beach house for a week
Oh beach how you let everyone go into your place You make my life happy Do I make you happy by cleaning you up? *
An Ode to Pork Roll, Egg and Cheese Sandwich By Luke
O pork roll, egg and cheese sandwich Crisp, Juicy You smell like the grill at my house So spectacular when my teeth munch on you
You burn my tongue Why? But who cares You’re so juicy and messy You are 5 inches tall You taste even better with a siding of fries
How you get ketchup all over my face I have to use a box of napkins But who cares Do you like me? Well, I love you
I wish you will never go, But if I eat you I might as well say goodbye,
You’re almost heaven On a bun
* “An Ode for Shmuppy” by Andrew
Bowling ball; tubby; big guy, are your street names. But they don’t account for your thick layers of muscle, taut, then slack, as you stalk a cheap ball. Your short, sleek, black hair as smooth as a clear night sky shines in the afternoon sunbeams. Your tiny, powerful paws which could crush coal into diamonds stand on my chest as I try to watch TV. “No Mo, not now.” But you look at me, with your heavy-lidded, people’s eyes and eventually settle into my lap: a pile—a bundle—of fat, fur and muscle. My little companion. Me and you, against the world. And you’ll get up again, and try the same dance, and I’ll say: “I don’t know what you want, Mo,” though I can probably guess—you either want to go outside or play. You’ll look frustrated and bored and slink away, to roam the house listlessly until we can give you attention, nourishing you.
An Ode to Air By Alan You can’t be seen You can’t be ate, I wonder if you could separate? I feel so glad and don’t feel Sad that you’re everywhere, I think That’s fair.
Where did you come from, was it far, far away? I wonder how far you spread Can humans ever touch you? Can you ever die? O how I pray that your day And I just hate that they pollute You, O how I pray that you’re okay.
Ode to Halloween By Allie
The month for Halloween
is October
A witch on a broom
the big bright moon
Scary masks
That is Halloween
Mummies are wrapped
A haunted house
Bats spread their
Wings
A carved pumpkin and
Trick or Treat!
Candy,
Chocolate
The witch with her brew,
RIP
A ghost says
Boo!
Ghosts are scary
Monsters and giant claws
Goblins, haunted castles
And scary sounds
Halloween is everything
When Halloween is over
I wish it was this day again
Oh Halloween, can you please come back
I really wish it was this day again
Ode to the Four Legged Furry by Toby
Brown-eyed four-legged friend
Perched at the top of the stair.
Knowing, sensing,
We are out the door,
a bustle of confusion,
On our way to school.
It is not your time
for adventure and fresh air.
No, not yet.
Your big, sad eyes stare at our every move,
As we gather our school bags and
get our coats on.
It is hard to leave that look
behind, that gentle face.
Your soft white fur and floppy brown ears.
You will have to stay
loyal, steadfast friend.
Your small body curled on beds,
stealing looks out windowsills
the cats taunting you as they roam free
through the neighborhood,
keeping your ears perked
listening,
half asleep
for a car door,
a familiar footfall,
a voice you know and love to hear.
To run and
jump, tail giving
away what you feel.
Your whole body bending and wiggling,
you might split in half with excitement!
Brown eyes glittering with satisfaction
your bark ringing through the air
announcing the return
“All hail They are home!
I am not forgotten!”
Ode to Hot French Bread That I Made Myself, Right Out of the Oven
by Mary Beth O'C
O golden, crusty
fish-shaped marvel
of risen dough:
flour, yeast, water, salt,
Julia Child was right
about you.
She knew to let you
rise slow, three times.
Then heat the oven
with its square stone
450 hot degrees.
Place cast iron pan
underneath, empty
and ready to fizzle
the half cup water
tossed in at the very
beginning to set the crust.
O how I have tried
and tried to make you
turn out the way
I wanted, and how
I have failed and failed.
The dough had to be
pushed and pulled,
slapped and folded,
I see that now.
And when I consulted
Julia and took the time
to actually follow her
eloquent directions,
amazingly, you turned out!
You looked so beautiful,
so perfect, so French!
And, since the instant
read thermometer leapt
to the requisite 200,
I waited only long enough
that I could touch you
without fear
of burning my fingertips,
cut a hunk of you,
buttered you,
and sank
to the kitchen floor
in gratitude.
As toast the next day,
you were okay.
But that moment,
that moment when right
from the oven,
the whole house
declaring “Bakery!”
the butter oozing
from your tantalizing soft heart,
that moment is like
all moments that are rare,
that come only when
the circumstances
are arranged in such a way—
like swimming in a lake
on a cold day
toward the end of summer
when the water
is warmer than the air.
Or the particular quiet
in my neighborhood
on empty Sunday mornings
when a breeze creaking
the screen door
is enough to wake
a sleeper, who,
with a sigh, realizes
she can turn over
and lay her head
back on her pillow.
Ode to Blu
By Madisyn
Blu my
Beloved Blu
I love your
Colors like a dark
Pattern Blue,
Grey, black
Blue, grey
Black like a
Dark rainbow
Of love when
You purr
Your eyes widen
And sparkle and when
Your claws
Sink in the
Couch, when
Grandma yells
At you let
Out a big Meow
And run
Out of sight
And when you
Sleep like a
Little angel
Ode to Haze
by Erik Frid
a steamy blanket clouds the horizon,
dispersing the sun,
children’s book farms and valleys
blurred and washed over
like a fuzzy photograph,
reinventing the straight world.
summer haze,
when the world shifts to the sun,
when it fills the west with poetry,
when it glosses the setting west.
for February is far too long
stale and rigid.
Ode to Sea Isle City
By Sela Wyetzner
My feet sinking in to the sand
Seeing people tan
Splashing in the waves
Oh beach you are the best thing in the world
Playing on floats
Getting your totes filled with sunscreen
I wish I could be there all my life
Finding wonderful things in the sand
It is so fun it gets out of hand
Getting all sandy
The hose is handy
Your food is good
I like Braca’s the best
I am so glad we rented a beach house for a week
Oh beach how you let everyone go into your place
You make my life happy
Do I make you happy by cleaning you up?
*
An Ode to Pork Roll, Egg and Cheese Sandwich
By Luke
O pork roll, egg and cheese sandwich
Crisp,
Juicy
You smell like the grill at my house
So spectacular when my teeth munch on you
You burn my tongue
Why?
But who cares
You’re so juicy and messy
You are 5 inches tall
You taste even better with a siding of fries
How you get ketchup all over my face
I have to use a box of napkins
But who cares
Do you like me?
Well, I love you
I wish you will never go,
But if I eat you I might as well say goodbye,
You’re almost heaven
On a bun
*
“An Ode for Shmuppy”
by Andrew
Bowling ball; tubby; big guy,
are your street names.
But they don’t account for your
thick layers of muscle,
taut,
then slack,
as you stalk a cheap ball.
Your short, sleek, black hair as smooth as a clear night sky
shines in the afternoon sunbeams.
Your tiny, powerful paws
which could crush coal into diamonds
stand on my chest as I try to watch TV.
“No Mo, not now.”
But you look at me,
with your heavy-lidded, people’s eyes
and eventually settle into my lap:
a pile—a bundle—of fat, fur and muscle.
My little companion.
Me and you,
against the world.
And you’ll get up again,
and try the same dance,
and I’ll say:
“I don’t know what you want, Mo,”
though I can probably guess—you either want to go outside or play.
You’ll look frustrated and bored
and slink away,
to roam the house listlessly until we can give you attention,
nourishing you.
An Ode to Air
By Alan
You can’t be seen
You can’t be ate,
I wonder if you could separate?
I feel so glad and don’t feel
Sad that you’re everywhere, I think
That’s fair.
Where did you come from, was it far, far away?
I wonder how far you spread
Can humans ever touch you?
Can you ever die?
O how I pray that your day
And I just hate that they pollute
You, O how I pray that you’re okay.
Ode to Halloween
By Allie
The month for Halloween
is October
A witch on a broom
the big bright moon
Scary masks
That is Halloween
Mummies are wrapped
A haunted house
Bats spread their
Wings
A carved pumpkin and
Trick or Treat!
Candy,
Chocolate
The witch with her brew,
RIP
A ghost says
Boo!
Ghosts are scary
Monsters and giant claws
Goblins, haunted castles
And scary sounds
Halloween is everything
When Halloween is over
I wish it was this day again
Oh Halloween, can you please come back
I really wish it was this day again
Ode to the Four Legged Furry by Toby
Brown-eyed four-legged friend
Perched at the top of the stair.
Knowing, sensing,
We are out the door,
a bustle of confusion,
On our way to school.
It is not your time
for adventure and fresh air.
No, not yet.
Your big, sad eyes stare at our every move,
As we gather our school bags and
get our coats on.
It is hard to leave that look
behind, that gentle face.
Your soft white fur and floppy brown ears.
You will have to stay
loyal, steadfast friend.
Your small body curled on beds,
stealing looks out windowsills
the cats taunting you as they roam free
through the neighborhood,
keeping your ears perked
listening,
half asleep
for a car door,
a familiar footfall,
a voice you know and love to hear.
To run and
jump, tail giving
away what you feel.
Your whole body bending and wiggling,
you might split in half with excitement!
Brown eyes glittering with satisfaction
your bark ringing through the air
announcing the return
“All hail They are home!
I am not forgotten!”
Ode to Hot French Bread That I Made Myself, Right Out of the Oven
by Mary Beth O'C
O golden, crusty
fish-shaped marvel
of risen dough:
flour, yeast, water, salt,
Julia Child was right
about you.
She knew to let you
rise slow, three times.
Then heat the oven
with its square stone
450 hot degrees.
Place cast iron pan
underneath, empty
and ready to fizzle
the half cup water
tossed in at the very
beginning to set the crust.
O how I have tried
and tried to make you
turn out the way
I wanted, and how
I have failed and failed.
The dough had to be
pushed and pulled,
slapped and folded,
I see that now.
And when I consulted
Julia and took the time
to actually follow her
eloquent directions,
amazingly, you turned out!
You looked so beautiful,
so perfect, so French!
And, since the instant
read thermometer leapt
to the requisite 200,
I waited only long enough
that I could touch you
without fear
of burning my fingertips,
cut a hunk of you,
buttered you,
and sank
to the kitchen floor
in gratitude.
As toast the next day,
you were okay.
But that moment,
that moment when right
from the oven,
the whole house
declaring “Bakery!”
the butter oozing
from your tantalizing soft heart,
that moment is like
all moments that are rare,
that come only when
the circumstances
are arranged in such a way—
like swimming in a lake
on a cold day
toward the end of summer
when the water
is warmer than the air.
Or the particular quiet
in my neighborhood
on empty Sunday mornings
when a breeze creaking
the screen door
is enough to wake
a sleeper, who,
with a sigh, realizes
she can turn over
and lay her head
back on her pillow.